The Other End of Onstar
Anybody who knows me (and that’s not a lot of people because I don’t have many friends), knows that there are three things I really hate: One, people; two, talking; and three, talking to people. So it may come as some surprise that for my summer job I elected to apply at, and get, a job in which all I did for ten and a half hours a day was talk to (get yelled at by) over two hundred people (idiots). This employer I speak of is officially called Minacs, but you may know it better as the company Kelly Ripa loves to extol the virtues of: Onstar.
Yes, every time anyone across Canada or the US pressed that little blue button in their horribly assembled GM car, I was on the other end ready to meet their every demand. Now, you may be thinking that I have a ton of hilarious stories to tell you, but I really don’t. I’m as surprised as you are, but most of my day was spent politely informing rednecks on how to get to the nearest Applebee’s so that they could spend their money stuffing their fat asses instead of paying off their mortgages (yeah that’s right, I went there). Nonetheless, I’ll try and be as funny as possible.
There was the time a woman asked to speak to my supervisor because I was “too nice.” To her I say: Hey you fat fucking ass-hammock, shut the fuck up! There’s something she can appreciate.
There was that other time that a nice young African-American gentleman gave me the greatest compliment of my life by referring to me as his… er… uh… “N-word”. Little did he know though that I’m basically “the whitest guy ever,” as my co-worker so sweetly pointed out to me at the time. What friends I do have will confirm this whiteness.
The very last call I took this summer was a car full of Italian-Americans who requested I direct them to a “Gentlemen’s Club” called “Badda-Bings”, so that they could see all the “Badda-Vaginas.” Now there’s nothing wrong with that. We all need dirty overpriced pussy once and a while. I understand that. It’s just I had never had it put to me so eloquently.
That’s about it, but to those of you who own a vehicle with Onstar, let me save us all some time. Only call if you actually have a problem, okay? I don’t want to hear about the details of your worthless life, or how your wife is leaving you, or that your father died, or that your girlfriend caught you cheating. I am just an incredibly pale white kid with no friends and a shitty summer-job. I’m not Oprah I’m Onstar.
- Digg It!
- Posted on October 21st, 2008
- Articles, Steven Beirness, Web-only
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